


we are each our own devil

by Nakimochiku



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 18:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6481951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakimochiku/pseuds/Nakimochiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mother told him never to mess with juju. He breaks that promise when he summons a crossroads demon for writing success. It isn't until after he's sealed the deal with a kiss that he realizes just why his mother warned him, because it is all downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are each our own devil

Alex’s hands shake. His mother told him never to mess with juju, and he’d done right by the warning for seventeen years, but in the eye of the hurricane, trapped in a circle of battering winds and rains beneath prayers God refused to answer, he realized two things: Sometimes the only way out or up is to build your own ladder. Sometimes, you have to do desperate things to get where you want.

The moon is high and nearly full, silver light spilling across the sands. It’s a deceptively calm night, a cool ocean breeze whipping the surf. Some irrational part of him, the childish part that once huddled under his mother’s weak and wasted arm and prayed for death, hates the ocean, hates the power it holds. A childish part of him fears the water. But, as this particular road is the only one with a crossroad for miles, he has no choice but to stand near the beach and listen to the innocent waves that once swelled up and tried to drown him and everything he knew. He buries the bag in the center of the crossroads, the sand giving easily beneath his  fingers.

He waits. There’s a moment of silence, the hush of the waves, the chirp of night bugs, the deep velvet of night. But there’s no demon. He should have known it wouldn’t work, shouldn’t have given into superstition--

“Hello.”

Alex whips around, and blinks in surprise. The boy is handsome, around Alex’s age, skin dark and clear. He greets Alex with a tight and humourless smile, the expression unnatural, and takes a couple careful steps forward, like he’s sneaking up on a sun bathing lizard just before he pounces. Alex starts to stammer, “Are you--?”

Deep brown eyes flash red, and cut this question off  before he can really articulate it. Alex doesn’t know what he expected the demon to look like. Hooves and antlers, maybe, a burst of smoke and a crack of thunder. Not pretty brown eyes, and pretty brown skin and the cunning expression of a coiled snake. Not the faint smell of coconut and mango with an undercurrent of sulphur. A pastor once told him the devil is tempting and beautiful, Alex just didn’t suspect he meant it so literally. “What can I do for you?” The demon asks with a smooth and sweet voice.

“You can grant any wish I desire? Anything at all?”

The boy shrugs, “That is, admittedly the whole reason people call me.” He steps closer again, his bare feet hardly disturb the sand. Alex doesn’t know how much closer he should let him, watching him warily as he circles him. “So what can I do for you, Alexander Hamilton?”

“I want...No, I have the skills to write. I’m a great writer.” The demon hums and nods, prompting him to keep speaking, so Alex does, because he’s nervous, he babbles all his words and lets them flop between them like dead fish. “I need people to take notice of me. I need to be able to build myself up, build a legacy, change the world. And to do that I need success. I want to be a successful writer. I want you to give me the power to publish anything and have the people eat it up like I can turn lead into gold. I want people to hang on my every word.”

“Easy.” The boy demon smiles tightly at him again, and for a second his mouth seems full of fangs and his eyes seem a bottomless fiery red. “Ten years of a career as a successful writer in exchange for your soul. Deal?” He moves closer and reaches for him, but Alexander backs away from him quickly, near tripping in the sand.

“Wait! Ten years?” He holds up his hands as though to fend the demon off, fingers just brushing the soft cotton of his shirt before he snaps away. “That’s it?”

“That’s the standard.” He replies easily, stepping closer again.

“No.” Alex frowns, and the demon blinks and frowns back at him, fingers curling at his side the only show of irritation. “No one can do anything in ten years. Give me fifteen.”

“Are you bargaining with a demon?” The boy’s laugh is as mirthless as his smile, his voice is smoky and insidious. The waves crash loudly in Alexander’s ears, and he’s reminded suddenly of a hurricane. This demon is not a hurricane, he is a tidal wave, merciless, inhuman, ready to sweep away everything that he is in one crash and roar of water.

“If I’m gonna trade away my soul, I’m gonna make it worth my while.” Alex fixes the demon with a determined look, shoulders straight and chin tipped up. The demon hums, flexes his fingers as he thinks, mouth a tight line of discontent. Alex takes a step closer, crowding the demon, pressing his luck because he doesn’t want the demon to think through the deal, to haggle him down. “Do we have a deal?” This close, the smell of fruit and sulphur is overwhelming, his breath is hot as flames against Alex’s cheeks. If he reached up he could twists his fingers in that white cotton shirt, in the flutter of his lopsided cravat, if he titled his head they would be breathing each other.

The demon blinks at him once appraisingly, and sighs. “Deal.”

His fingers slide over the back of Alex’s neck gently, intimately, tangling in the flyaway hairs at the base of his skull. His skin is hot, and it promises to burn Alex alive from the inside out. Their mouths are close, those brown eyes flick to his lips and darken with threat and hunger. Alex doesn’t know what he looks like, stiff beneath the demon’s touch, watching his eyes and his mouth before the demon kisses him. There’s a wet slide of tongue, an insistent noise against his mouth before he opens to it, lets the demon claim him with an almost hungry sound.

He realizes with mortification the sound came from him.

The kiss seems to last forever, it scorches his lips; it’s wet and bruising. And then the demon pulls away, leaving Alex panting stupidly alone in the sand, nothing but the moonlight and the sound of miniature tidal waves left behind to remind him of what he’s done.

*

Alex writes his way out. They pass a plate around and total strangers moved to kindness by his story raise enough for him to book passage on a ship that is New York bound.

He will become a giant. He will become a titan. He will climb the ladder and stand among gods. He fashioned it himself with a few words, and the scorching kiss of a demon.

*

He’s nearly nineteen when he sees the demon again. His eyes flash red, but no one else in the pub seems to notice. Alex wonders if he should approach, if the demon is waiting for him specifically. He can’t help but keep meeting his eyes across the room, studying his near unnatural stillness beneath his lashes as the demon appears to do the same. Then curiosity wins out over caution, as it always does, and he slides into the demon’s booth.

“What are you doing here?” He demands, leaning in close. He smells just like Alex remembers, heat radiates from him and Alex wonders if he has the very fires of hell for a soul, if he will bleed black lava when cut.

“Just checking up on my investment. Making a few deals around town.” The demon shrugs, and holds up a tall stein of beer, clinking it with lazy friendliness against Alex’s, like they’ve known each other for years. “How is the writing coming?”

“What are you checking up on me for? I haven’t broken any terms of our contract, I haven’t tried to run, all I’ve been doing is writing--”

“Talk less Alexander. You have plenty of time.” The demon murmurs. He sips his beer, watching Alex over the rim with those deep eyes. It’s not fair that he finds the demon so attractive and so odious, both instinctive reactions swirling in his belly and leaving him concerned and so helplessly in lust.

“Will you be doing this often? Checking up on me?” He needs to know, he needs to prepare himself to see those eyes in a crowded room and being frozen to his core while simultaneously set on fire.

“Often enough.” The demon replies coolly.

“Then we might as well get acquainted.” Alex puts on a strong front, holds out his hand for a shake. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“You can call me Burr. Aaron Burr.” He glances at his hand and flashes him the same dry mirthless smile Alex has been having nightmares about for three years. “Aren’t we a little passed handshakes?” Alex almost retracts the hand, before Aaron Burr catches his wrist and bends to press a kiss to the back of his hand, thumb stroking over the skin, his palm so hot against Alex’s before letting go and sipping his beer as though it never happened. “Shall I buy you a drink?”

Alex flounders, grapples for words while Aaron watches him, waiting patiently for his answer like it makes no difference to him either way. “Sure.” he manages. “That would be nice.”

Later, Alex has only had one beer, but he feels liquid and loose and messy the longer he sits in Aaron’s presence. Aaron has him up against the wall behind the pub, his new friends are inside raising hell, but what does he need them for when he has his own personal hell right here? His tongue is sin, his eyes are sin, the sharp pain of his teeth sinking into his lip, the sound he makes at the taste of Alex’s blood, the insistent grip on his hips is sin and Alex wants to swallow all of it.

“Smile more, Alexander.” He says, pats his cheek, and vanishes.

*

When their mouths are pressed together, he does not say no. So, nobody needs to know.

And if he said, sometimes he fantasizes about the demon he sold his soul to, sometimes he relives over and over the velvet of his lips and the heat of his mouth, who would believe him?

Nobody needs to know.

*

The battlefield is chaos. It is blood and shit and entrails and the echoing screams of men younger than him still covered in an enemy’s blood and never being quite right again. The sun is high and hot, beating down on them, cursing them to disease and hunger and slow painful deaths.

“What are you doing here?” Alex drags Aaron behind a tent by the arm, thankful for the thick wool of his uniform to protect him from the hellfire heat of Aaron’s skin, the temptation he effortlessly represents, even when he just looks at Alex blandly with the vague impression of irritation, expression as tight and unnatural as ever.

“War is an excellent place to make deals.” Aaron informs him simply, pulling his arm away. “People sell their souls for life, glory, genius, victory. Business is booming.”

“But why are you here, specifically. There are skirmishes all over the colonies. Why here? Why this one?” Aaron blinks at him like he’s stupid, and Alex nearly punches him in the face just for that. “Tell me why, and don’t say it’s because you’re checking up on me, or there’s good business.”

“I want to see you in action.” Aaron says bluntly. His eyes cut, followed swiftly by his words, leaving Alex flayed and vulnerable to them. He wants to prove himself, wants to stand tall and iron against the force and crash of Aaron, of the whole universe, against him. “I want to see if there’s more to you than a crossroads deal to lend you a little luck.”

“There’s more to me, and you’ll see it. Just you wait.” Alex promises. “I’ll prove myself through more than just my writing.”

“Through what? Battle?” Aaron lifts one elegant brow, and Alex glowers defiantly. “Careful Alexander. You are not invincible. You are not immortal. If you die today, your soul is still mine.”

“Even if--”

“No matter when or where, your soul is mine.”

The gravel in his voice, the promise of it, shouldn't send a shiver down his spine. But still, Alex can’t help that it does, and he can’t help rocking a little closer, pressing their lips together. Somewhere a cannon goes off, and his heart bursts with it. Here is the tidal wave.

He’s not sure what he regrets more, summoning Aaron to begin with, or letting him get so deep beneath his skin.

*

They keep meeting. In alleyways at night and in cheap boarding rooms and down at the docks where scandalous things are never remiss. 

They keep meeting. On battlefields covered in blood and between trees where no one can see.

They keep meeting.

*

Alexander is nearly thirty when Aaron appears before him again. He stands in the middle of Alex’s office, casually adjusting the sleeves of his shirt beneath the cuff of his jacket, elegantly dressed and elegantly poised. He's as dangerous and as beautiful as Alex remembers, and he wishes desperately it weren’t the case. He’s older now, brown eyes flashing red in the right light lined with age, but all it does is lend him an air of wisdom to match the arrogant, reptilian twist of his mouth that Alex wants desperately to kiss smooth.

“What do you want?” Alex grumbles. Eliza is in the next room, playing with Philip. Their laughter through the door is a sweet balm on the blister of Aaron’s presence, cool as the water of an oasis to the scorch of Aaron’s desert. There’s something holy about Eliza, something pure and honest and iron willed. Just like there’s something inherently bloodthirsty about Aaron. Alex's eternal dilemma is choosing between the two; to walk the path of the righteous or the damned? Alex fears showing her this dark thing, this sin, and reminds himself, nobody needs to know nobody needs to know nobody--

Aaron shrugs, disinterested, dissatisfied, expression haughty and bland all at once. Alex wants to punch him, to break him down, to find something human in that force of nature, to kiss him and bite until he bleeds and moans beneath his teeth--

“You’ve accomplished quite a life here.” He says conversationally, and tips his head at the door to the other room. “You’ve worked nonstop. You have a pretty wife, a lovely child, successful writings.”

“What do you want?” Alex repeats, voice rough with encroaching fury. “Have you come to taunt me? To remind me how little I’ve actually managed?”

“No.” Aaron settles against Alex’s desk. He's too close to be considered safe, the press of the curve of his hip within arm’s reach. He still smells like tropical fruit, the kinds Alex hasn't tasted in a lifetime except on Aaron’s skin, but the scent is augmented with a woodsy cologne. Alex’s mouth waters and his head spins and he wants to scream. “I came to remind you that you've accomplished plenty.” he looks around as though surveying a kingdom, eyes landing on the piles of scattered writings, the ink stained wood, Alex’s fingers around a quill, before meeting his gaze.

“I haven't accomplished anything! I haven't finished my studies, The financial system is still a mess, the war is still on--”

“You asked for fifteen years of success. I gave it to you.” Aaron is judicious and indifferent. Alex thinks he expected a mocking, Faustian creature, a Mephistopheles to drive him mad, when he summoned him so many years ago, but he’s come to realize that isn't in Aaron’s nature. Instead, he’s given a walking contradiction, a mystery that he feels he’ll never unravel, never understand. That, in itself, drives him mad more than Aaron could.

“Why’d you give me the fifteen years?” he remembers bargaining with the demon boy on the beach; he remembers the sound of waves, his residual fear heavy in his belly, hot breath against his cheek, something like want and terror drawing him closer like a magnet.

“Because you’re interesting and I wanted to see what you would do.” It's the most capricious thing Aaron’s ever said. He stands fully, pushing away from the desk, giving Alex room to breathe. His implication is clear; he has his answer, Alex is no longer interesting.

“Am I living on borrowed time?” Alex whispers.

Aaron regards him with that same, damnable mirthless smile. “Are you only just realizing?”

*

There's a million things he hasn't done, hasn't written, and he can't stop now. 

*

The war is won but he gets no peace.

The hell hounds haunt him, prowl at the edge of his vision, chasing and teasing and waiting. Sometimes he thinks he sees Aaron, sometimes he wants to reach out to him. He writes and publishes and writes some more, can’t stop or think or breathe. He’s near frantic, and the rancid, hideous hell hounds trail him, wait at the foot of his bed for the very second, the very hour when they will tear him apart.

They are just like Aaron himself in that way, always waiting.

He drives to the nearest crossroads at midnight, and buries the juju bag in the hard packed earth. It is nothing like that night fifteen years ago. It is cold and there is no moon. There’s no soft waves on softer sand, just the night sounds of New York. “Come on you bastard, I don’t have time for this.”

“I’m not the bastard here.” Aaron leans against a brick wall, near blending into shadow, arms crossed. “and I have all the time in the world. Are you running out of time, Alexander?” it's a cruel question really, salt to a raw wound, a bullet between the ribs.

“I want more.” Alex hisses. “More time. Give me more time.”

Aaron hums and regards him, expression illegible. There is no hint of pity or compassion. He is completely amoral and removed, as deep and as treacherous as the sea, a force of nature. “I can do that.” he says slowly. Alex grins, he can't help it. “You’ll have to give me something in return.”

“What?”

“I can bend the rules, not break them. A soul for a soul, Alexander.” he does not approach him, does not move, a viper in the shadows lying in wait. “You can't have something from nothing.”

“No.” Alex agrees, and moves to Aaron, shoves him hard into the brick, and is grateful for the shadows, because he's ashamed that he doesn't feel shame. “take a soul then. Just give me more time.” he kisses Aaron before he can say anything more; he doesn't want to hear his voice, and he doesn't want to swallow his guilt, but he does want to drown in this one good thing. This one dangerous thing.

But then, nobody needs to know.

*

Laurens leads a soldier’s chorus on the other side. He is not surprised when Eliza reads him the news, only cold and resigned.

*

Aaron comes to him in fury. He's never looked more like a demon than now, eyes red and full of vengeance, mouth torn around his fangs. His lip is bleeding, his cheek is swollen and bruised, his fingers are crooked and broken. He is breathing flames and it is beautiful. Alex isn't as fearful as he should be, fascinated with the play of emotion across Aaron’s face, none of it so tight and reserved. “You are the root of all my problems Alexander Hamilton! You!” Aaron snarls at him and drags him from his chair, sending it crashing to the floor, upsetting his ink well so it's black blood splashes over the wood. He slams Alex hard into the wall, fingers tight around the base of his throat, the threat of strength enough to crush his windpipe with ease does not alleviate the fear or the arousal coiled in Alex’s belly..

“What’s this about, Burr?” Alex rasps, fingers scratching at Aaron’s wrist, feet kicking out uselessly. He sucks in a wheezy breath through his mouth, his nails dig hard enough to break skin. It's just another wound to add to Aaron’s collection, “Normally you’re so cordial.”

“You! You cost me my chance as the King of the crossroads you--!” Even as he speaks, the red bleeds from his eyes, leaving his fury cold. He gives Alex one long look, the hush of the calm before the storm and sets him down, fingers clenching in the fabric of his jacket. He draws all that fury back into himself, the long breath of the ocean before the crash of the wave. Alex wants to tempt him into bursting. “Your deal kept me from being considered, from moving up in ranks. Your deal. Giving you extra time, accepting another soul in your place, you are the damned linch pin at the center of it all.”

“You cost yourself whatever chance you lost, Aaron Burr.” Alex says sharply. His throat is tender and he will have unexplainable bruises his collars and cravats won’t be able to hide. “You made your own decisions.”

“If I hadn’t made the deal, if I’d never agreed, I would be the king of crossroads. I cost myself the chance for you, over you, because of you! You were my undoing.” There is no trace of the anger now, just a grim sort of resignation and humor, just a frosty glass front ready to shatter and pierce him. Alex holds his breath and waits, studies the sharp curve of Aaron’s jaw, the elegant hollow of his downcast eyes, ringed in blossoms of red and purple. His face is naked now, composure torn and fury wasted, to leave some foreign pathetic thing Alex wants to explore. Something has to give, something has to burst. He eagerly awaits it. “You are the common thread in every failure, every weak moment.”

“I’m not your anything.” Alex says, voice cool and steady. “And I won't apologize for your choices. I am not your weakness, not your responsibility. I drove you to nothing.”

“You drove me to nothing.” Aaron repeats with an air of dark finality. “There's the poetry of it, I suppose. My undoing is your success.”

Alex wonders if he should point out there is no success. There is only darkness and a weight on his soul and the lingering threat of being torn apart in another few years. There is only the long awaited crash of a tidal wave and the smell of fruit, and cologne and sulphur, familiar and intimate in the scant space between them. It has always been this way for Alex, Now Aaron is just in the darkness with him. “So you won't kill me, you won't rescind our deals?”

“I'm not even supposed to hurt you.” his fingers, gentle now, come up to trace the marks he left, blossoming like the ones on Aaron's cheek. He does not look like he regrets hurting him, he looks more like he longs to do it again, brown eyes swirling and dark, so that Alex is tempted to let him and thank him for it. “But you are an exception to every rule.”

“What do you want, Burr?” Alex demands before Aaron can turn away and vanish, catching his wrist. “You don't get what you want without fighting for it. So what do you want?”

Aaron watches him a long moment before he answers. “I want to stand at the very top. I want to answer to no one. And I will do it, despite or because of you, Alexander Hamilton.” He's gone then, leaving Alex as aching and wanting as ever, the threat more palpable now than when he had his broken fingers wrapped around Alex’s neck.

*

In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet for just a moment, a yellow sky. He will not let this drown him. He will not let Aaron Burr drown him.

He survived a hurricane, and he can ride out this tidal wave.

*

He gets another five years when he asks. Then another. Then another. Every kiss sealing a new deal memorizes some new taste of Aaron’s, prints it into his bones to match the contracts on his skin. Every kiss sends him deeper into that darkness with him, hand in hand.

Sometimes he thinks to ask if Aaron still gets in trouble for making these underhanded deals. Sometimes he likes to imagine him with blood on his teeth and a defiant glint in his dispassionate eyes. He wants to light that fire himself. He wants to split his lip, but settles for biting it.

“What a disaster.” Alex murmurs, before slotting their lips together, licking his way eagerly into Aaron’s mouth. His hands tangle in Alex’s hair, tipping his face to dominate the kiss, biting Alex’s tongue and sucking. They both moan breathlessly into each other, draw away just enough to catch full lips between teeth before tangling again.

What a disaster, Alex thinks even as he shakes apart, but he has no idea which one of them he means.

Then Phillip dies. He has no way of knowing who Aaron chooses when he makes these deals, no way to know if it’ll be a friendly neighbour, the old lady who runs the bakery, Eliza-- some hapless soul condemned to hell because he wants to live and work just a little longer. But then Aaron takes Phillip. He cradles his dying son in his arms and scrapes together enough anger to hate Aaron with. He's done bargaining. He's sick of the cancer in his own soul, but there's no way to cut it out, it's grown too deep for too long. He’s done. So he runs.

He writes a letter:

I’ve tolerated your presence in my life for the disease you are, I’ve let you corrupt me and I’ve borne it with grace and dignity. But you’ve taken from me the last thing I could bear, and I refuse to bear it. You took from me the one thing I can never forgive you for.

I will not be party to your schemes any longer. I will not allow or facilitate your cruelties. I will not participate or equivocate any longer. Find some other pitiful being to crush beneath the heel of your tyranny, torment some other soul, because we are done. I hereby cut our association.

You are nothing to me, and I will become nothing to you.

Your obedient servant,

A. Ham

He moves uptown. He purifies the house, fortifies it with salt lines, carries around a flask of holy water just to keep Aaron away, keep him out. He can’t risk seeing him; If he sees him, he knows he’ll slip right back into his addiction. He doesn’t trust himself not to want a darkness he knows so well.

He thinks he sees Aaron when he escorts the children to church, when he walks the town end to end. He thinks he sees shades of him, eyes so much deeper now with hellfire naked in them. He starts every time, but when he looks again, hand halfway to his pocket for the holy water, Aaron is never there. He knows now which one of them he meant to call disaster.

He gets a letter:

Keep sending me souls. Feed them to me, sacrifice as many you know and many more that you don’t. Scramble for every second like a beggar scratching for crumbs in the dirt. Write until your wrists break and breathe through it. But don’t pretend at righteousness now, don’t pretend to be a better man than you are.

I will get you. If you live to be a hundred, or a thousand, I will get you. There is no way out, except through another deal, or the payment of your debt. Make no mistake, There is no corner of the earth you can go that I will not find you.

Stand and face me and the consequences of a life of sin, or run and hide like a coward behind salt lines and witches charms.

Your obedient servant,

A. Burr

It seems so typical of Aaron to call Alex out through the one media he knows Alex can't ignore. He burns the letter and takes a seat by the window to think. He thinks he sees a shadow on the street outside, nearly formless in the darkness. He thinks he should break the salt lines, invite Aaron in to talk like they used to. His fingers lift to do it, his heart squeezes and he can’t do it, doesn’t dare.

He write a note and tacks it to the window:

Weehawken, dawn.

Your obedient servant,

A. Ham

*

God help and forgive him, he wanted to build something that would outlive him. He knew what he wanted, he traded everything he had for it. And here, at last, is where they will both fall.

*

Alex’s hands shake. Despite his mother’s lessons, he has come to realize two things: desperate measures lead to desperate resolutions, and he is ready to face the tidal wave now. He sees his death there, in a beautiful man who once kissed him stupid on a beach. Does he run? Does he fire his gun? Does he let it be?

The waves lap lazily at the pier, the sun teases the night sky out of place, spilling blood across the clouds and pushing away purple velvet for new colours, lilac and bursts of pink. Somewhere a gull calls over the water. The sound is familiar, the setting is familiar. It’s been nearly thirty years, it was on a different beach, but the beautiful demon is the same, the swell and splash of water on rocks is the same. And yet none of that seems to matter. History repeats itself because it’s always erasing whatever came before.

“Hello.” Aaron greets.

“I want a new deal.” Alex wastes no time to say.

“Of course you do.” Aaron says with resigned air of a man who has watched the same tragic opera a thousand times. He does not expect a different ending. He does not expect Alex’s hands on his arms, their lips together in a sweet kiss. He stands stiffly and waits until it’s over, eyes narrowed as he regards him.

“Make me what you are.”

“A crossroads demon?”

“Yes.” Alex whispers against Aaron’s lips.

“Why should I?” he tips his head back to look at him, expression illegible immovable stone. “What do I get for the trouble?”

“You want to stand at the top. That’s what I want too.”

“You’re a menace, Alexander Hamilton.”

Alex grins and Aaron sighs, and when they kiss it is exactly like the first time, and not at all the same. Then there is nothing left on the beach but the full gold light and the sound of the waves.

*

The world is not wide enough for Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr both. But hell? Hell has more than enough vacancies.


End file.
